


until the final buzzer sounds

by bloodlust



Category: NCT (Band), SuperM (Korea Band)
Genre: M/M, Miscommunication, Sports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:00:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27853810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodlust/pseuds/bloodlust
Summary: ...and every time he thinks he’s got him all figured out, his teammate turns into a completely different leaf, leaving a clean slate for him to guess what his next move will be.
Relationships: Mark Lee/Wong Yuk Hei | Lucas
Comments: 12
Kudos: 109





	until the final buzzer sounds

**Author's Note:**

> huge disclaimer: all the knowledge i have of sports came directly from youtube so i apologise for any kind of inaccuracy in this fic (´Д｀ι)

_Sixty-three minutes_.

 _That’s a career highlight right there_ , he tells himself, shying his eyes away from the crowd of flashes and microphones. _Sixty-fucking-three_ minutes in a single game on his third year in the industry.

It’s a fucking miracle that he can still sit-in for a postgame interview after all that jazz—even though no one will ask him about it.

“First question on the right,” a high-pitched voice pipes up, catching him off-guard. He looks around, squinting at the sea of reporters, and finally spots a young woman with a raised pen seated near the exit.

“First off, I just want to congratulate you for advancing to the Finals with another clean sweep and, as always, we’ve seen such an incredible defense from the whole team tonight.”

“Thank you,” he quietly responds.

The woman gives him a broad smile and glances down at her phone for a few seconds before speaking into the microphone in front of her once again. “How do you guys think the rest of your team manages to keep up with your rather aggressive but efficient defensive and offensive plays?”

“It all boils down to teamwork, basically,” his teammate starts off without hesitation, prompting him to subtly turn his gaze to his right.

The man briefly stares at the reporter with a small smile and an almost seductive look until he gets distracted by a camera flash, causing him to continue on with the rest of his answer. “If any of us wants to try a new play, we let everyone in the team know how it would work on an actual game before trying it during practice. If the coaches see that it doesn’t work out for any of the players, we just scrap that strat and think of a new one.”

_Well… that’s actually a good answer._

He leans back against his seat and gulps down the remaining contents of the water bottle in his hand before nodding in agreement without adding anything to his teammate’s answer.

Most of his postgame interviews, even during the majority of the regular season, have always been like this—him sitting quietly in the corner while one or two of his teammates, sometimes along with their head coach, take on the questions.

Someone might dare to throw him a question or two, sure, but even those are considered a rare occurrence.

“At the back,” a middle-aged man with glasses practically yells, frantically waving his recorder up for both of them to see. “What’s your response to the people saying you’ll most likely choke in the Finals?”

The question makes him sigh, but both his teammate and head coach simply laugh at it, seemingly brushing it off as a lighthearted joke. “We’re not answering that question, man. Next, please.”

At this point, he really would rather just sit in front of the reporters without opening his mouth. He has long since realized that it’s a lot better for him and for his career to shut up and not deal with any of the sports press’s bullshit… especially at times when he feels _way_ beyond exhausted.

_Like right fucking now._

“You okay, son?”

The question interrupts his train of thoughts, making him immediately whip his head to his left, and finds Nick Nurse, their head coach, staring right back at him with a worried expression evident on his face.

“Yes, sir,” he answers politely. “I feel better than ever.”

_He really doesn’t._

Both of his arms feel sore, his calves and thighs hurt like a motherfucker, and he can almost hear his whole body screaming at him to go home and take a proper shower, probably even crack a cold one before sleeping his ass off until one of their coaches decides to call him in for practice.

“Good,” Coach Nurse responds, lightly patting his shoulder before turning back to the crowd of reporters.

He takes in a deep breath, slowly releasing it while the interview goes on, trying his best not to look dazed and confused in front of the cameras. He owes a lot to their head coach, after all, what with the man setting him as a franchise player and signing him a five-year contract with the team, and keeping up appearances is the least he can do for him in return—well, _that_ , and being incredibly good at his job, he supposes.

“Last question to your center, Lucas,” another reporter speaks up from the crowd and they all turn to a man with an iPhone in his hand and a raised arm as if he’s reciting in class.

Their head coach gestures at him to continue. “Go ahead, Sungchan.”

“You and Mark Lee are arguably one of the most unexpected and interesting tandems we’ve seen during both the regular season and the playoffs,” the reporter says, slightly stumbling over his words as he nervously checks on his notes.

He stifles a laugh but masks it by blowing at a strand of stray hair on his forehead. He feels bad for the kid who’s struggling to finish his question. It’s probably a good one—one that the other reporters are probably too afraid to ask—but then again, he already knows where the young reporter’s going just by his opening statement.

“You guys have showcased to us this amazing connection on the court, almost on a Steph-Klay level, but we rarely get to see you two interact off-court and even during interviews like this. How do you guys even work on your chemistry and how do you think that will fit into your dynamics as the next probable super duo?”

Lucas pauses, looking over to him with a somewhat surprised expression. He stares back, raising a perfectly arched brow at his teammate, but the man seems unfazed by it, simply turning back to the reporter with a tight smile.

“I guess we’ll leave that up to your imagination.”

**♔♔♔**

“ _And one, baby_!”

He can practically hear his teammates’ roars— _especially Kyle Lowry’s_ —beyond the half-court line despite the loud cheers reverberating throughout the Arena. He shakes his head in amusement, positioning himself on the free-throw line while stretching his arms out.

“Eyes on the ball, _Lee_ ,” Lucas quietly tells him as he passes by, making his way inside the paint to occupy the empty space near the basket beside Luka Dončić.

Mark bites the insides of his cheeks, resisting the urge to shoot daggers at his teammate’s receding figure, and focuses his attention on the situation at hand.

His hands feel clammy and he could almost hear his heart pounding inside his chest as he looks at their current score. It isn’t a secret that his career free throw percentage is on par with J.J. Redick’s, but he still somehow feels insecure whenever he’s placed at the center of everyone’s attention—especially when they don’t have the home-court advantage.

One of the officials passes him the ball, blowing a single whistle as a signal for him to shoot, and Mark releases a breath, briefly allowing himself to feel the weight of the ball in his hands before releasing it.

_Score._

“Nice shot,” Lucas says, giving him a tap on his left shoulder while jogging back to the half-court line, expecting to make contact with any _Mavericks_ player near the baseline. “What’s our play?”

“Just stay left,” he answers, slightly bending himself forward to fix his stance as he sees Dončić propelling towards them with the ball in his hand. “I’ll get the Don, you get the Unicorn.”

Lucas lets out an amused snort. “Sounds fun.”

Mark doesn’t say anything in return, already tuning down the noise around him to focus on guarding Dončić, but somehow still manages to keep an eye out at how Lucas aggressively closes out on Kristaps Porziņģis.

Contrary to the public’s opinion, he and Lucas aren’t actually the best of friends. He has seen multiple compilations of them being friendly on YouTube, but he knows, and all his teammates know, that it’s nothing more than a sham.

A PR stunt to get everyone hooked back on the _Raptors_ after their loss of both the Lowry-DeRozan and the Wong-Leonard duos.

Mark doesn’t know why, but there’s always been this air of animosity between them ever since they’ve been drafted—which, he now understands, most likely comes from their shared competitiveness and the way the press have always pitted them against each other.

Except… he can’t explain why Lucas keeps giving him a _look_.

One that can’t seem to decode no matter how much he tries.

“Mark, stay low!” Lowry yells at him, pulling him out of his thoughts before turning to Lucas. “Lucas, lock-in, come on! Stay on D!”

He glances back at the clock, calculating their chances of winning in his mind, and quickly runs forward as soon as he sees a window of opportunity to steal the ball from Tim Hardaway Jr.

 _Thirteen seconds_.

Mark doesn’t even think twice. He makes a touchdown pass from beyond the half-court all the way down to the paint where Aron Baynes openly waits for them, and silently prays for their center to slam in it.

 _Score_.

They’re now only down to two.

The whistle blows and the official raises both of his hands, placing them on top of his shoulders with his elbows out to signal a thirty-second timeout before pointing to Rick Carlisle, the head coach of the Dallas Mavericks.

“Good pass, my man,” Baynes tells him with a slap on his backside. “That was tough but really good. Glad you made that call.”

Mark only nods in response and downs a cup of Gatorade before proceeding to the bench, already hearing their coach’s instructions. He leans in, making sure Coach Nurse sees him listening in the huddle, and wipes off the excess sweat rolling down his forehead.

“Lucas, you stay on KP. Make sure he doesn’t try to pull off any of his clutch plays,” Coach Nurse says loudly. “Kyle, Pascal, Mark, you know the drill. Aron, you, too. Go low then close in when someone goes out of the lane with the ball, all right?”

“Yes, coach.”

“Ten seconds,” their coach reminds them. “We got ten seconds left on the clock. Stay on it. Stay aggressive. Don’t lose your focus.”

The buzzer rings, indicating that they’re back in the game, and Mark casually steps inside the court, allowing Lowry to guard Trey Burke for the inbound pass while he directs the rest of the team to make a five-out motion.

Lowry effectively intercepts the ball even before it reaches Hardaway Jr.’s hands and passes it to Siakam who yells for Lucas to go wide right, but points his hand at Mark, subtly telling him that he’s passing the ball to him.

 _Five seconds left on the clock_.

Mark takes the ball and goes inside the lane, taking on three players as he euro steps from the three-point line to fake a lay-up before ultimately tossing the ball behind him, praying that someone would catch it.

He quickly looks back, half-expecting Lowry or Siakam to be there, but he sees Lucas instead, standing outside the three-point line with his eyes on the hoop and the ball in his hand.

_One and a half seconds._

There’s a pregnant pause, a heavy silence hanging in the air with only the sound of the ball hitting the wooden floor slicing through it. The dribbling seems to stretch on for a minute, but Mark knows that he’s only buying time—waiting for the clock to run out.

And then Lucas finally fires up a three.

Mark holds his breath, watching the ball create a perfect arc from his teammate’s hands to the basket just as the buzzer rings loudly to indicate the end of the game.

_Score._

He doesn’t even register anything.

All he sees is his teammates on the bench running inside the court, throwing their towels at him and the others while yelling on top of their lungs. He glances at the scoreboard, seeing their final score with a one-point lead, and finally realizes that they’ve won the first game.

Mark then drags his gaze back to Lucas and the rest of his teammates, beckoning himself to join them in celebrating their buzzer-beater win, only for him to _freeze_.

Not because the man is giving him his usual ice-cold glare, but because for the first time since they’ve both been drafted by the Raptors three years ago, Lucas is smiling at him—a genuine one, this time—with an almost fond look etched on the man’s pretty face...

_…a look that makes Mark’s stomach feel funny._

**♔** **♔** **♔**

_Tick._ _Tock._ _Tick._ _Tock._ _Tick—_

It’s as if the walls are closing in on him.

There’s the distinct ticking of a clock from somewhere that he can’t seem to pinpoint, and there’s a muffled yell followed by a series of unintelligible sentences coming directly from his right side.

“Mark, _son_ , are you all right?”

There’s an arm wrapping itself around his waist and the feeling of his body slowly being lifted, prompting him to shake his head and break out of his trancelike state.

“Yes, coach,” he answers hesitantly, turning his head to the right just in time to see a frowning Lucas setting him down on one of the bleachers. He awkwardly clears his throat and looks back at their head coach.

“No, you’re not,” Coach Nurse decides for him, beckoning for one of the officials to come over before turning back to him. “Take a walk, son. Clear your head then come back when you’re ready.”

Mark wants to protest— _he really does_ —but their head coach already seems set on his decision by calling Lucas back into the bench. “Lucas, I’m subbing you out for the rest of the quarter. Accompany Mark down the hall and try to make sure he doesn’t stray anywhere far, all right?”

“Copy, coach,” his teammate responds with a single nod. Lucas turns to him with a sigh, the frown on his face is still there. “Let’s go.”

Both of them walk out into the halls of the Scotiabank Arena and strolled down into their locker rooms in total silence. Lucas looks pissed, Mark mentally notes, but he can’t put his finger on why his teammate is acting this way.

The man looks so concerned and angry at the same time that it’s making his heart feel like it’s about to leap out of his chest.

He keeps his eyes trained on his teammate’s back, following his lead without bothering to strike up a conversation, and lets his mind wander back to what has exactly led to this moment.

Yet he can only remember the feeling of falling.

 _That can’t be it_ , he thinks. Surely whatever Lucas is getting all worked up on, Mark doubts it’s anything remotely related to _that_.

“Everybody out,” his teammate orders both the staff and a group of reporters chatting away while they wait for them inside the locker room. The people scurry off in haste, reminding him once again how commanding the man can be.

“All right,” Lucas says to him, shutting the door after the last staff exits out of the locker room. His teammate turns back to him, eyes narrowed as he looks at him with a stony expression. “What the fuck was _that_ , Mark?”

_Mark._

For as long as he can remember, Lucas has never called him by his first name before. Whether it’s in an interview or in a meeting with the higher-ups, Mark has always been just either _Lee_ or _golden boy_ to him.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Mark sighs, knowing better than to show his surprise at both the way Lucas had called him and the sting lacing his teammate’s tone. He sits down on one of the chairs and looks back at the man in front of him to show his disinterest. “I’m going to need you to be more specific.”

“Cut the bullshit,” Lucas snaps back in a hiss, taking a single step towards him. Mark sees his teammate’s free hand curl tightly into a fist as if he’s holding himself back, but Lucas simply clears his throat, unclenching his hand as if nothing happened. “You could’ve gotten seriously injured. Do you know how long it’ll take for you to recover from a fall like that?”

_Ah._

Mark doesn’t know whether to laugh or smack himself.

_Of course._

Lucas knows how much the team needs Mark’s gameplay and Lucas also knows that they can’t afford for any of the starting five players to get injured, not when they’re on their way to get their first championship ring.

_That’s it._

The extent of Lucas’ concern for him—whatever kind of concern that is—stops there.

He should’ve already known that Lucas only cares about the game and about winning the game.

“I don’t understand why you’re so mad,” Mark answers nonchalantly with a shrug, swallowing back the bitterness that might crawl out of his throat seep through his voice. “Isn’t _that_ what you want?”

Lucas raises an eyebrow in question. “What?”

“ _Please_ ,” he scoffs, standing up to stretch his legs and put some distance between them. “Let’s not pretend like I’m not getting in the way of your precious Kia MVP Award.”

_Shit._

He hastily looks back at Lucas, immediately regretting the words that came out of his mouth, but he’s only met with the sight of his teammate just staring at him incredulously with his lips slightly agape, almost as if he’s watching Mark grow another head.

See, Lucas stands on the complete opposite side from a trainwreck player. He’s the first pick overall in the first round of the 2017 Draft, the co-winner of the 2018 Rookie of the Year with Ben Simmons, a three-time All-Star and All-Defensive Team player, the 2019 Defensive Player of the Year, the leading triple-double scorer both in the League’s regular season and postseason, and currently one of the top candidates for the regular-season MVP award.

Throughout the past three years of his career, his teammate has proven himself worthy over and over again of those titles—even managing to charm the general public and sports analysts into a consensus that he’s destined for greatness if he continues taking the court away by storm.

_Except…_

Mark’s always lurking in his shadow.

And if Lucas isn’t too careful, those very same sports analysts have predicted that Mark’s current and regular season _stats_ are more than enough to snatch that golden crown away from him.

“Is that really what you think this is?” Lucas asks him, voice barely above a whisper, and while there isn’t any venom to his teammate’s question, its quietness still makes him wince.

“Isn’t it?” Mark manages to counter. “Stop acting like you’re concerned about me, man. The cameras aren’t rolling.”

Lucas gazes right at him, seemingly studying the minuscule movements on his face before shaking his head and chuckling humorlessly as if Mark had just told him an overused joke. His teammate turns his attention back to him, this time with a small smile identical to the one he gave Mark during their first Finals game.

It’s making him feel lightheaded.

Mark’s not a gymnast, _he’s fully aware of that_ , but there’s this certain fondness that comes with Lucas’ smile that’s making his stomach do a double backflip with three twists on loop.

The man in front of him tilts his head to the side, still sporting that ridiculous smile on his lips. “You really want to know why I’m concerned about you?”

“Be my guest,” Mark challenges, surprised that he could still speak without his voice cracking.

_And then._

He doesn’t even know how it happened.

One moment Lucas is studying him from across the locker room, the next he’s maneuvering him up against the cold, metallic lockers, consequently trapping him with his right arm as he holds his gaze with those intense, round eyes.

Mark feels a flush creeping up from his neck to his face, the warm sensation pricking his skin, and he swears his heart’s about to explode just by being _this_ close to the man.

He looks away, clearing his throat and attempting to wriggle his way out of the man’s space, but immediately stops as he feels a finger lift his chin up, forcing him to look back into his teammate’s eyes—only for Lucas to lean down without any hesitation.

It’s a short, close-mouthed kiss, a simple meeting of their lips, and yet Mark’s entire body feels like it’s been struck by lightning.

A strange feeling that he never wants to end.

“ _There_ ,” Lucas whispers against his lips. “Now, get your shit together.”

**♔** **♔** **♔**

“Mark, go through,” Lowry instructs him, motioning him from the three-point line. “Go through!”

Mark aggressively drives himself inside the paint, making sure to time his movements to avoid any penalties, and recreates Dr. J’s iconic baseline scoop.

_Score._

“That’s what I’m talking about, Mark,” Siakam tells him, practically tackling him to the courtside cameramen. “Keep on cooking.”

Mark laughs, winking at one of the cameras in front of them before taking off, already switching his offensive stance into a defensive one. He’s had five straight baskets, three from downtown and two inside, and he’s already getting cocky.

“Hey,” Lowry calls out to him. “Tell Lucas you’re doubling up with him on the outside. Don’t let any of them do a three.”

Well… _there goes his chance of getting another shot_ , Mark thinks to himself.

Ever since they’ve had _that_ little moment in the locker room, Lucas has been avoiding him like he has the plague—even going as far as dodging a question about him during one of the postgame interviews.

Which, _of course_ , only makes Mark feel like he’s been sucker-punched right in his gut.

“Outside,” he tells Lucas with a soft voice, making sure to keep his voice low and only audible enough for his teammate to hear.

Lucas simply nods in response without saying anything. He takes note of the way his teammate barely glances at him as he hurriedly moves to his new position, almost as if he’s running away from Mark, but it only makes him feel worse.

One of the officials blows a whistle, prompting him to come back to his senses. Mark furrows his brows, shaking the whole thing off to focus on Burke and Dončić.

He’s already managed to distract himself for a whole week, he knows damn well he can do it again. Mark’s a professional, after all, and as much as he wants to reciprocate Lucas’s coldness towards him, they still have a Championship ring to get.

 _Plus_ , he really doesn’t want to see what a pissed off Kyle Lowry looks like.

“Mark, stay up,” Lowry yells at him, guarding Dorian Finney-Smith inside the paint. Mark follows his instruction and runs through Burke, managing to steal the ball before he can make a shot or pass the ball to either Dončić or Porziņģis.

“Trailer,” he hears a voice from behind as he drives inside the lane.

 _Lucas_.

Mark turns around almost immediately, instinctively passing the ball to his teammate even though he’s wide open, and goes straight under the board in case Lucas misses.

 _He doesn’t_.

“Good pass,” Lucas tells him with a nod before jogging back to the other side of the court to high-five their other teammates.

Mark only blinks at his teammate, wondering what in the world just happened, but hastily snaps out of it when he sees Dončić with the ball in his hand, already gesturing for Porziņģis to go inside the paint—only for him to drill it in himself, bypassing Baynes and Siakam’s defense.

Siakam retaliates, wiggling through three players, and rewards himself with a nice bank shot.

 _Score_.

Dallas wastes no time calling for a timeout.

“You all right?” Lowry asks him on the way to the bench, looping an arm around his shoulders to steer him away from the rest of the team. Coach Nurse briefly glances at them but doesn’t say anything, only motioning for their other teammates to get closer to him.

He answers his teammate’s question with a nod, hoping Lowry would drop it without pressing further. His teammate snorts and releases him from his grip.

“You should squash whatever your beef is with Lucas,” Lowry starts, not bothering to even mince his words. “It’s not a good color on both of you and it’s not a good color on the team. Y’all are good kids and you clearly have the chemistry. I hope you’ll figure it all out before coach hears about it.”

Mark clenches his jaw, but smiles at his teammate despite himself, doing everything he can before a microphone picks up on their conversation. Lowry gives him a pat on the back and inserts himself in Coach Nurse’s meeting, leaving Mark alone to his own devices—which, apparently for Mark, is a valid excuse to stare at Lucas from afar.

The thing is, Mark can read people like books. He knows just the right words to say and just the right buttons to push depending on what impression he wants them to have of him.

It’s one of his many skills, _sure_ , but it’s also a skill that seems to malfunction around Lucas.

Every time Mark thinks he’s got him all figured out, his teammate turns into a completely different leaf, leaving him a clean slate to guess what his next move will be.

The buzzer rings, releasing Mark from Lucas’s spell just as Adrian Griffin, one of their team’s assistant coaches, gestures for him to go back inside the court.

_A minute and twenty-three seconds left._

Dončić inbounds the ball to Hardaway Jr., prompting Mark to kick himself into motion and get as close as possible to his opponent without committing a foul, but Hardaway Jr. quickly passes it to Burke—who shoots it from deep.

_Another three for the Mavs._

Mark grinds his teeth as soon as he receives the inbound pass from Lowry, assessing the situation in front of him while he slowly dribbles the ball to run out the shot clock. They have the advantage, he remarks, but he also knows that a lot can happen within the span of a minute.

He decides to push, firmly securing his grip on the ball as he skates around three of their opponents before picking himself up as high as he can to slam a dunk. A part of him is thrilled, fired up at the idea of him making the first dunk of his career in a Finals game, and he’s a hundred percent sure that nothing can rob him of this moment.

Until a body suddenly slams into him.

Mark loses both his grip and his balance, causing his whole body to tilt to the side while still in the air. There’s the distinct noise of his teammates yelling, almost as if they know what’s about to happen, but the only clear voice he can focus on is _his_.

_Lucas._

And then he falls.

**♔** **♔** **♔**

“ _And the 2021 Kia NBA Most Valuable Player goes to_ …”

His door rings just as Adam Silver, the current commissioner of the NBA, takes a moment onstage, seemingly fumbling with the envelope he’s holding. Mark stands up with a sigh, taking his elbow crutch with him to the door, and carelessly opens it without bothering to look who it is on his digital door viewer.

He raises his head, opening his lips to ask the person what they’re knocking for—only for him to immediately shut his mouth close as soon as he sees who it is.

“ _Lucas Wong of the Toronto Raptors_.”

Mark blinks, briefly wondering whether his mind is simply playing one of its sick jokes on him or not as he processes the sight before him.

There, standing right in front of him with two large paper bags in his hands, is Lucas—all dolled-up and dressed to the nines as if he’s just gotten out of a black-tie event.

_Wait a second…_

“Hey, golden boy,” his teammate greets him with a small smile, looking a little anxious as he sheepishly runs his free hand through his hair.

It’s been approximately two weeks since the Raptors have been crowned as the 2021 NBA Champions, approximately two weeks since his accident and surgery— _a broken tibia-fibula_ , the doctor had told him—and approximately two weeks since the man has spoken to him.

 _There’s no way_ , Mark thinks to himself, trumping down the fluttering sensation that’s building up inside his stomach. There’s no way in hell that his teammate is actually in front of him right now instead of delivering his speech in front of hundreds of people inside the Enercare Centre.

_And yet…_

Mark clears his throat, feeling his face flush as he catches himself staring at Lucas for too long. “Aren’t you supposed to be down at the Ex?”

“I asked Coach Nurse to do it for me,” Lucas answers, gesturing at his television. His teammate looks back at him, still sporting the small smile on his lips. “He thinks I got a really bad case of a last-minute stage fright.”

Mark can’t help but shake his head in amusement. “Come on in.”

“How’s your leg?” Lucas asks out loud as he removes his shoes, neatly placing them beside the door before awkwardly trailing behind him inside his condo.

“It’s all right,” he answers truthfully. “I just have to keep the cast on for a month. Do you want anything to drink?”

His teammate shakes his head and places the two large paper bags he’s holding on top of his coffee table. “This is for you, by the way. I heard you like Mexican food, but I don’t know what your favorite is so I just asked them to put the best ones on their menu.”

Mark looks at Lucas, noticing the tips of his teammate’s ears turn into a shade of red. He smiles. “Thank you, man. I really appreciate it.”

An air of comfortable silence passes between them as they sit in front of the television, eyes glued to the front while they watch Coach Nurse read the acceptance speech that Lucas has prepared for the MVP award.

Their whole setup feels strangely normal—kind of domestic, even—yet it still doesn’t seem to stop Mark’s heart from beating like he’s on a clutch fast break.

He clicks his tongue on the roof of his mouth, internally cursing himself for thinking too much about their last interaction. His memory might be a little fuzzy during the night of his accident, but he swears he can remember hearing Lucas’s voice assuring him that everything’s going to be okay.

And then he doesn’t hear anything from the man for two weeks.

“I’m sorry,” his teammate quietly whispers out of the blue, almost as if he can clearly hear his thoughts.

Mark looks over to Lucas, slightly confused as to what the man’s apologizing for. “For what?”

“For kissing you.”

“Oh.”

He feels his stomach drop.

“I didn’t bother asking you if you wanted it and I’m really sorry if I’ve imposed myself on you like that,” Lucas quickly adds before Mark can tell him—through gritted teeth and a tight smile—that it’s not a big deal. His teammate looks straight into his eyes and smiles apologetically at him. “I honestly didn’t know how to approach you for the past few weeks. _So_. Here I am.”

 _Oh_.

Mark stares at him in disbelief, his heart suddenly beating anew. “Is that why you’ve been avoiding me?”

“Pretty much,” the man confirms with a nod. “I figured you’d want nothing to do with me after that.”

They fall silent once more, the tension in the air seemingly thickening with every passing second as they both wait for each other to speak up.

“Sorry,” Lucas starts again with a wince. The redness of the tips of his teammate’s ears is still there, Mark realizes, but this time it’s spreading all the way down to his face. Lucas shifts on the couch and turns his body in his direction. “I actually had this whole confession thing planned inside my head, but I can’t seem to function whenever I look at you—”

He feels his brain short circuit.

Mark lurches himself forward, forcefully grabbing at the lapels of Lucas’s suit, and mashes their lips together, momentarily forgetting the pain searing through his leg as his entire body feels like it’s being engulfed by flames. His heart’s beating fast, faster than anything he’s ever felt before, but Mark finds in himself that he doesn’t really care—not when he’s finally _here_.

The touch of Lucas’s soft, plump lips makes him fly, letting him soar through the clouds with an unspoken promise of a happy ever after, and Mark relishes the feeling, never wanting to come down ever again.

Lucas chuckles through the kiss, gently stroking the hairs on the nape of Mark’s neck as he moves towards him, closing the distance between their bodies while he lets Mark take control. It’s a simple gesture, but it’s enough to make Mark’s skin prickle.

Mark briefly pulls away, putting his forehead against Lucas’s as he gasps for air. “God, I fucking hate you.”

Lucas smiles and presses a quick kiss on his lips.

“No, you don’t.”


End file.
